Camelot Rising
by Gavin Frostdale
Summary: Camelot Rising is a fanciful and detailed re-imagining of the world of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table from a modern perspective, exploring Arthur's "second coming" and the question, "What would Camelot look like if raised in modern times?"


To the best of my knowledge, the legends regarding King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, and all ideas, adventures, and characters contained therein are not owned by any person, collective, or ogranisation, and remain part of the public domain. If anyone can offer me information to the contrary, please do not hesitate to do so, as the last thing I desire is to infringe upon or belittle another's work.

What follows is my own (fictional and highly Romantic) addition to the already quite large body of myth and legend regarding the famous figures of King Arthur and his legendary knights. I care not if it contradicts previous canon, as the previous canon quite often contradicts itself- I hope only that this work lives up to all the legends which have so far preceded it. As always, I must request that all comments, critiques, and reviews are limited to constructive praise and criticism- "I don't think that would happen," and "I don't like this story," are entirely subjective statements and thus useless and irrelevant to me as the author.

* * *

The light turns green. The automobiles waiting their turn now rush forward, eager to arrive at their destination. The sound of a horn rings out clear over the crowded street, and several hands are lifted out of open windows in response, fingers posed in gestures less than kind. Voices are raised in angry protest, carrying arguments back and forth across several lanes of traffic. The people hurrying by on the sidewalk do not pay the scene any mind- they see it every day, in dozens of variations with dozens of different players. The faces change, the voices change, the words change- but the story remains the same. Everyone has someplace to be, something to do, and has no time to spare for idle thoughts- such as why men seem to be so angry with their brothers these days. They have all heard the elderly speak of better days, of course- days when men treated women with respect, and women held themselves to strict standards of behaviour- but few of them are old enough to have seen them, or remember. To most, the world is as it always has been- a cruel, harsh, and unforgiving place.

There is one man, though, who stands out among the crowds. Everyone moves with the harassed, angry gate of a person who has too much to do and not enough time in which to do it- everyone, that is, except him. He moves with the steady, long-legged stride of a man who knows his purpose, but who has all the time in the world in which to achieve it. Where the people around him brush past with lowered eyes and stooped shoulders, he stands straight and looks around as he walks, taking in the sights of the city; the people, the automobiles, the buildings rising hundreds of feet above his head. How wonderful the things are which men can accomplish with their minds, he thinks as he looks at the city. He wonders, also, if there is anyone else on the street that can see it as he sees it.

But it is not merely his stride or his poise which set him apart from the people around him- his very appearance is out of place. Most do not notice it- they have spent their entire lives trying not to notice such things- but a few do accidentally take notice of him, and blink stupidly for a few moments before continuing on their way. The man is tall, with a lean, weathered face and piercing blue eyes- blue eyes made all the more noticeable by the long, white hair flowing from under his decades-old fedora and the snow-white beard falling down from his face onto his chest. His suit matches his hat, both in style and in age, yet the black of his clothing has not faded- if anything, it seems to shine with a lustre that even a brand new suit cannot hope to match. His shirt is spotless, starched and pressed, white enough to put the mannequins in the storefront windows he passes to shame. His shoes, to the contrary, quite ruin his appearance- they are old, faded, cracked…and brown.

He comes to a busy intersection, and the pedestrian lights are red, indicating that it is dangerous to cross. The man does not slow and wait for the light- he has no need to wait. He merely continues walking- and skips the street. No one notices- when you have endeavoured your entire life to see only that which you expect, things like a bum in nice clothes suddenly disappearing and then just as suddenly reappearing across the street are beneath your notice.

The sun is setting to his left as he continues down the street as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. For a moment, he is filled with longing for his home across the sea, where the streets are not so crowded and the buildings not so tall. He admires the handiwork of men, it is true, but he has yet to find the skyscraper that rivals the majesty of an Irish sunset. He wishes, just for an instant, that he could be back home, today of all days. As soon as it comes, the thought flees- today, he must exist only in the present.

He comes to another intersection, and crosses this one the same as he did the one before. He is now in a wealthy section of the city- the shops lining both sides of the street advertise all the latest brands and fashions, and the cars are more expensive, the people more refined and reserved. The occasional small tree can be seen, and short rows of potted flowers and plants grace the sidewalks. The sun is setting quickly, now, but the man seems to be in no more hurry than before- time he has, for time he is.

He comes to a stop in front of a set of steps leading to a door below the level of the street, with a sign hanging above it that says only, "Pub." This, apparently, is his destination, for he smiles slightly to himself and descends the steps. He turns the knob, pushes in the door, and enters.

The pub is a dimly lit and tastefully decorated establishment that has, from the look of the panelling on its wall s and the moulded copper on its ceilings, been around for quite a long time. The bartender is a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a pressed collared shirt and tuxedo vest. He looks up as the man with the long white hair and snow-white beard enters, and smile of recognition lights up his face.

"Good evening, Mister Merl." says the bartender, and the older man looks at him wryly as he takes a seat at the end of the bar.

"How many times must I request that you call me simply Merl?" he asks, and the bartender chuckles.

"At least once more, as always, Mister Merl." The man called Merl grunts and motions for a drink. It is obvious that he is a regular, as the bartender quickly locates the oldest bottle of whiskey in the establishment and measures out a glass. Merl takes a sip, savouring the flavour, and places the glass on the bar in front of him. Except for himself and the bartender, the establishment is empty.

"What brings you to Windsor this evening, Mister Merl, if you don't mind my asking?" the bartender asks, more because he is glad of another person with which to talk than because he actually cares. Merl is lost in thought, appearing to complement the contents of his glass, which he is swirling gently in front of him.

"Big day today," he answers absent-mindedly.

"Oh? How so?"

"He is going to be born today." The bartender smiles.

"Oh, a grandchild? I didn't even know you had kids." Merl chuckles.

"I do not. And he is no grandchild of mine, though I am sure he will be someone's." The bartender pauses in the act of polishing a clean glass and turns to regard his only customer with a puzzled frown on his face.

"Friend of the family? A niece or nephew, perhaps?" Merl regards the bartender with a raptor's gaze.

"Have you not heard? It is the twenty-first century. People are in the habit of telling people they have never met the smallest detail of their lives over the internet, every day. Sometimes every hour." The bartender chuckled, but was still slightly puzzled. He was by no means the smartest man in the world, he knew well- but he was smart enough to know when he was being given the run-around.

"I guess I'm just curious what this child being born has to do with you- why it's so important, I mean." Merl sighs, and returns to staring into his now half-empty whiskey glass.

"It has everything to do with me, though I had nothing to do with it- at least not this time. As to why it is important... that remains to be seen." The bartender returns to polishing his glass, but is now watching his patron rather oddly, as if expecting him to suddenly begin speaking in tongues. Several minutes pass in this manner, with the bartender watching his customer worriedly and Merl peering intently into the gradually shrinking pool of whiskey in his glass.

At long last- or so it seems to the hapless bartender- the glass is empty, and Merl puts it down on the bar with a heavy sigh.

"Another round, Mister Merl?" asks the bartender, not at all sure if he should be serving Merl anything else this evening. To the bartender's relief, however, Merl shakes his head.

"I fear it is time for me to be on my way. The time draws near, and I must be there to see to it that there are no… complications." The bartender waits for Merl to continue, but he quickly realises that the older man is finished speaking. Disconcerted and not a little bit confused, the bartender turns to the register. He keys in the price of a single glass of twenty-five-year-old whiskey and impatiently waits for the receipt to print. When he turns back to his customer, however, the older man is nowhere to be seen.

Alarmed and frightened, the bartender rushes out from behind the bar and out onto the street, head turning frantically in search of the old man. After spending several fruitless minutes standing at the top of the steps looking around stupidly, the bartender gives it up as a bad job and angrily returns inside. When he returns to the bar, however, he finds a one hundred dollar bill that he would have sworn in any court of law had not been there before he went outside, and on it pinned a note:

"Solomon got one thing right, at least: there is nothing new under the sun. All things that have been, shall be again, time without end. One is born this day who has the chance to set mankind on a better path. He failed once before, due in no small part to my failings as a teacher. Let us hope that I do not fail him this time- I believe that my mistakes have cost humanity quite enough already, don't you?"

_~ Mister Merl (a.k.a. Merlin)_"

The bartender shakes his head, having no clue as to what the note means or who "Merlin" is. He pockets the cash, however, crumpling the note and throwing it into the wastebasket behind the bar. He shrugs it off as just another old man's eccentricity, because, if he is being completely honest, he has seen stranger things from far more interesting people than one old man pulling disappearing tricks and paying too much for a glass of whiskey.


End file.
